Fifty Shades of Flannel
by Nancy O'Toole
Summary: What happens when a billionaire former crack baby meets a mature woman who stumbles into his office? If you believe in romance, stilted conversations, curious legal documents, and the power of flannel, you'll submit to this tale.
1. Chapter 1

**Fifty Shades of Flannel**

**By Nancy O'Toole**

"Damn you Lanz nightgown," I think as I fall into the office of Christian Grey who is the mind-reeling combination of former crack baby, Adonis, billionaire, public university graduate and financial savant.

How did I arrive in the spacious and austere offices of Mr. Grey and in my favorite flannel sleep garment, no less? My daughter, Anastasia Steele, was supposed to interview this wunderkind for her college newspaper.

Let me start again. Actually her roommate, Kate, was supposed to conduct the interview. She fell ill and pressed Anastasia into service. When Anastasia's car (unreliable VW!) broke down, she called me, and well, here I am.

Mr. Grey seamlessly moves as if a gazelle gliding on Crisco to help me up. His hand feels solid and forbidding on my elbow.

"Let me help you, Mrs. Steele."

I bite my lower lip (a childish habit which I'm told drives some gentlemen wild) and straighten out the elastic on my sleeves. I push back a stray tendril of hair (Revlon Colorsilk Medium Ash Brown) and attempt to steady myself in my forest green Crocs.

"I'm so sorry. Please forgive me. I wouldn't blame you a bit if you wanted to spank me."

I looked quickly into his piercing eyes as he regarded me with wonder and a hint of intrigue.

_Spanking? Where had that come from?_

"Mrs. Steele, I can assure you I would never lift your Lanz without your permission."

I felt my face grow hot.

_He knows Lanz. What other woman secrets does he understand and yet tantalizingly keep just beyond my grasp? Biore Pore Strips in my ears? Waxing my big toe? Pinot Grigio and Fritos whilst watching Real Housewives?_

My reverie was broken by his manly hand extending a piece of paper towards me.

I adjusted the cotton lace at my neck and my yellow Scrunchie. He scowled. But why?

"I'd like you to read this Mrs. Steele. I know we've just met, but I feel that you and I have a connection...a potential for a relationship that will be both terrifying and satisfying."

I calmly remember that I am, after all, the married mother of three: a cornerstone of the Parent Association: a neighborhood icon, if you will; woman who has seen the inside of a front-loading washer after clothes come back from camp. _I know terrifying Mr. Grey, _I think smugly.

He looks amused and points me towards a sleek black leather couch. I take a seat and promptly slide off. _Flannel, you cruel mistress. _I silently curse.

He helps me up once again, and I am certain his eyes quickly take in the high-cut briefs with happy frog pattern that I have inadvertently flashed him. _High-cut, Mr. Grey_.

I settle myself once again on the couch. This time being careful to fold my Lanz into a sort of pantsuit arrangement around my thighs.

"Dominant-Submissive Agreement" reads the first line on the creamy ivory paper I am regarding.

The first line on the piece of paper. Holy cow! What in the name of metal balls in people's butts is this?

Flannel is to be worn only when the Submissive is in the presence of the Dominant.

Ankle-length athletic socks of a clean white nature MUST be worn at all times. Particularly whilst vacuuming and watching TV.

The Submissive is to refrain from adjusting the elastic sleeves or buttons on the front (or back if Submissive is a "Reverse Wearer" of Lanz) unless specifically instructed to do so by the Dominant.

The list went on and my head swam with details. This beguiling satyr of a man! He knows the ways of Lanz: the ballooning illusion of comfort that hides a roiling sea of passion. So few understand. So few will ever know.

He stood in his charcoal suit regarding me steadily. He knew I knew that he knew. What I know that now he so clearly knows too.

I had never been as frightened or as sure of anything in my life.

THE END


	2. Chapter 2

Fifty Shades of Flannel Chapter 2

Seattle looks different when you're seated in a private helicopter.

I say that not to brag, but because it's true and I'm in one.

And you're not. Just saying. No, you're full of yourself. I'm Teflon and you're glue, what sticks to me bounces off of…never mind.

Christian Grey is a man full of surprises, I thought to myself as we made our way in his jet-black helicopter to wherever and whatever he had in store for me. Mercifully I always carry rubber sheets, Motrin and a crucifix, so I am prepared for all eventualities.

He sat next to me, clad in his usual pristine white linen shirt and ripped jeans. I fear I had insulted him earlier when I had ventured that, perhaps, for a billionaire, he could throw on a pair of Dockers every now and again.

He looked angry, then stricken, and then calmly amused.

I'll make you pay for that remark, Mrs. Steele, he had said looking oddly at me.

Pay? For Dockers? I hope that Kohl's coupon in my purse is still good.

Dammit. Is he talking about spanking again? Someone call a therapist. Call two because clearly I need one too.

I hadn't had much time to prepare for this impromptu getaway. But I am nothing if not resourceful and a really poor judge of who's a sicko.

At his office earlier in the day, he mentioned that the best way for me to see how I felt about our proposed arrangement was to drink a lot of white wine, wear underwear purchased by his manservant, and go away with him for the weekend.

Rubber sheets aside, I hadn't packed an overnight bag. I was going to have to fashion an entire weekend wardrobe out of this nightgown.

Feigning a forgotten metal ball in my butt, I had hobbled to the ladies room. Armed with nail scissors, some twine and very poor judgment, I cut and ripped and Scarlett O'Hara'd my way around the situation.

Now, on this journey to madness, likely hemorrhoids and a taste for private air transportation, I sat confident in the knowledge that he found me alluring.

Who wouldn't? I had sacrificed the lower third of the Lanz into a bandeau top jauntily twisted to tie in front. The remaining fabric was divided between a headdress and a short sarong.

No woman ever looked lovelier, he whispered throatily into my headdress. With the possible exception of Cher in the last season of The Sonny and Cher Show when Bob Mackie was doing the costumes, he continued.

Are you absolutely positive you're not gay, I had asked for the seven hundredth time.

He laughed.

No Mrs. Steele, I am not. Although I understand that many in Seattle society have wondered about that for years.

See, when you say things like Bob Mackie…. it just raises a flag…I stopped because we had landed.

Let the adventure begin.


	3. Chapter 3

Fifty Shades of Flannel Chapter 3

It was a few feet from the helicopter to the black Audi SUV that Christian had waiting for us. I settled into the luxurious seat. My sarong was doing a marvelous job of buffing the charcoal colored leather.

Let him see my many talents in action.

Suddenly the most boring…I mean angelic… music fills the automobile's chamber. I say things like chamber when I could just say interior.

It makes some people want to punch me in the nose (like co-workers) and others, like Christian, want to lash me to a suede wall and possibly suspend me from the ceiling. But that's just a guess.

You do like pre-Elizabethan choral interpretations with madrigal accompaniment, I trust? Christian asks peering towards my exposed eye.

What you said, I answer confidently.

In short order, we arrive at his stark and foreboding high rise building. What would I find within? And why don't I feel any sense of imminent danger? I've never missed an episode of _To Catch a Predator_ or _Murder She Wrote_, but being here with him…depraved never felt so right.

Once inside his duplex, he immediately handed me a heavy crystal goblet of buttery Chardonnay. This was not to be confused with the earlier glasses of crisp Sancerre, perplexing Sauvignon, and impudent, yet well educated, Pinot Gris that I had downed.

He returns with a document. I lavishly sign without reading it (thanks Chardonnay). He needs to see that I am a woman of impulse as well.

Let's examine my playroom, he said, taking my goblet from me, and manfully steering using my flannel sarong as a leash.

I am known in some circles as a woman who knows her way around a ping-pong table, I say cheekily.

That's not quite what I have in mind.

What could he mean? Foosball? I hope it's not Wii Fit. The last time I tried Zumba, I nearly…

My thoughts are quickly interrupted as he opened the door to his pleasure chamber I gasped. Three words came to mind:

Murphy's Oil Soap.

Wow, that's a lot of polished wood, I observe.

That's what she said, he responded.


	4. Chapter 4

Fifty Shades of Flannel

Chapter 4

My eyes took a moment to adjust to the low lighting in Christian's "playroom."

Any surface that wasn't a glossy wood was covered in rich Corinthian leather. As you know, Corinth is the birthplace of leather. And Ricardo Montleban.

I'm no interior decorator, but rarely have I seen a private home adorned with more whips, chains, hula-hoops, feathers on sticks, and an alarming assortment of small objects.

Butter churns? Yes, I've seen my fair share of those. Spindles? We all have relatives with bad taste, so of course. But this was something different. And not good different like the time you had bacon ice cream with basil sauce.

Christian was shutting the two ornately carved doors behind us.

_I'm a wee bit claustrophobic_, I stammered.

Christian walked purposefully toward me.

_Do you believe that pleasure and pain dwell side by side? _He asked, advancing towards me.

_You mean like when I wax my moustache but then I reward myself with a Twix and Star Magazine? Like that? _I mused aloud trying to unravel this Rubik Cube in human form.

He kept walking. He placed his hands on my shoulders and gripped tightly.

This seemed like it was getting a little dark. And by dark I mean scary, and by scary I mean that rubber square on the bench in my lady business and that rubber suit on me.

_Look! It's Ryan Seacrest wearing nautical boxer briefs!" _I tried to buy time.

It must have done the trick, because Christian threw open the doors and scurried down the hall.

I needed to stall. Remain unattainable. Bewitch him with my womanly ways.

Whipping off my Lanz headdress and sarong, I grabbed a few feathers and within minutes, I was sporting a flannel tankini with feathered shoulder straps.

For modesty's sake (and who isn't modest in the sex chamber of a billionaire?) I had tucked much of the bottom fabric into my frog pattern briefs. So the look was just slightly "baby in diaper," but I had a feeling anything diapery would be appreciated by Christian.

Just then, Christian came back sweating and dejected.

_Why would you say you saw Ryan Seacrest if you didn't. That's just mean."_

I was back in control.

_If you want to play games Mr. Grey, I can too. _ I regarded him steadily rocking only slightly in my Crocs.

_Oh we're going to be playing games, Mrs. Steele. You signed away your free will. To me. Bow before your master. _He stood Lord-fully before me.

_Jude Law AND John Travolta in thongs having a dance off right behind you! _I hopped and pointed. To no avail.

He had become smarter in the last three minutes.

He calmly walked over to a large whip, picked it up and cracked it.

_It's easier if you just give in to me. It's less painful that way_," he said coldly.

Having ill advisedly watched _Deliverance _only weeks ago on Netflix. I did the only thing a woman in my situation could do: I fainted.


	5. Chapter 5

Fifty Shades of Flannel

Chapter 5

I was having a wonderful dream: _All My Children_ was still on the air. Nina and Cliff were back together and she was wearing a gorgeous Laura Ashley blouse circa 1982; all the laundry was folded and I didn't have to be in carpool for two hours. I began to float…

Christian was leaning over me waving a red lacquer fan.

It took a moment for me to remember where I was. Oh that's right. I was in the perversion galaxy of a total stranger.

_Mrs. Steele, you've fainted. Don't worry, I'm here to take care of you._

Knowing that his version of "take care" would involve something akin to a forced weekend at Club Med with recently released inmates, I leapt to my feet.

_I have an idea. Let's role play. _I said as I positioned myself in front of him.

Christian's eyes took on an unpleasant iciness.

_We're going to play ATM. I'm the ATM and you are the cardholder. _ I stood with arms akimbo and straightened my spine.

Christian looked confused. Like a frightened doe in a foreboding condo.

I continued to control the situation.

_You pretend to swipe your card. _He complied with a weak effort, batting his imaginary card at my chest.

_Denied! _ I sang out.

He tried again. He was off his game. Excellent.

_Denied_! I triumphantly chorused_._

_This isn't that fun. I was hoping we could play Gallic slave owner and nubile village nymph._ His voice trailed off as I remained strong in my ATM character.

_Nope! We're playing ATM; it was a huge hit at my son's fourth birthday last year._ _Come on. Try again. The bank may well take your card on this one._

A gong sounded. Now I was confused.

_My friend the doctor who makes house calls and who I may, or may not, have had a sexual relationship with is here. To examine you. It's in your contract. _Christian had dropped his pretend card to the ground.

What the devil had I signed? And did I have time to concoct an examination gown out of my Lanz remnants?

It was vital to remain in character.

_Nope. I'm still an ATM. Can't examine a machine… Especially if stirrups are involved. _

_And that little mascara wand thing. Not a machine tool, you see…_

A quiet knock at the door caused both Christian and I to turn.

An attractive woman in her late forties entered the room. She was wearing the time-honored Upscale-Gynecologist-to-Billionaire outfit of St. John's suit, Ferragamo pumps and an Hermes bag.

She briskly opened the bag, put on welder's goggles and a pair of latex gloves.

Merciful Summer's Eve, what was about to happen to me?


	6. Chapter 6

Fifty Shades of Flannel Chapter 6

The doctor introduced herself as Dr. Vivianna Wellsworth. I was intrigued and disturbed by the reality of Christian having a gynecologist on call.

"Buzz Kill" came to mind.

In an effort to remain covered and creative, I had skewered a feather into each of my earring holes (let's hope they're the only holes getting skewered with a feather today), and the remaining flannel fabric was doing duty as a makeshift examining gown.

Christian had graciously taken his leave with a Baccarat goblet of Rothschild Reserve Burgundy and a copy of International Male catalogue. I took this as an indication that the examination would be thorough. And that he still might be playing for the other team.

Dr. Wellsworth was busying herself with metal stirrups that had risen seamlessly from the end of the leather lounger.

Knowing that the only way I was going to allow myself to be examined was the promise of a diamond ankle bracelet, and a timeshare in the Wisconsin Dells, I simply had to think of a way to avoid this looming unpleasantness.

_Dr. Wellsworth, aren't you concerned about the standard of cleanliness in a non-sterile home environment? I mean, bleach on that St. John's suit would be a crime…_

Dr. Wellsworth continued to carefully lay out her supplies.

She seemed impervious to my pervs. So I defaulted to my favorite "go to" strategy: I babbled.

_You know bleach is really interesting. On the show, My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding, they use it on the walls. Those gals are really obsessed with cleaning. And the nails! How do they not dissolve in the bleach? _

_Dr. Wellsworth's head turned towards me sharply._

_I love My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding. Did you see the UK version first? It's really something…_She looked incredulous as she spoke.

I was in! And better me than her.

She stood, removed her jacket and leaned against the wall.

_Honestly, I can't believe I'm saying this, but that Gypsy lifestyle seems fantastic: married at 15, just stay home and hang out with your kids and girlfriends…I mean, who are we kidding, that's the life..._As she spoke, shelooked about 10 years younger_._

_I picked up the Gypsy gauntlet and ran with it. _

_I know! Right? I did see the UK version. Crazy wedding dresses. I mean crinoline city… Do you like Real Housewives? New York is my favorite, but Beverly Hills is growing on me…_

I was interrupted as Christian joined us again.

Now, if Captain Morgan and Siegfried & Roy had been allowed to mate, (I believe their legal teams got as far as the paperwork), Christian's current look was channeling their imaginary offspring.

He was wearing a tricorn hat with a large plume, black bike shorts and an elaborate brocade vest without a shirt.

Dr. Wellsworth spoke for both of us.

_Oh for God's sake Christian, you aren't lounge entertainment at Ladies Night on a cruise ship._

Christian was unfazed.

_Judging by the chatter I heard as I came in, it looks like you two are becoming friends. That might prove interesting. _He adjusted his plume. The one on his hat.

Dr. Wellsworth slumped slightly in exhaustion.

_Christian, it's time we had a talk. You're not dealing with the adult world very well. And you and I both know why._

Christian's hazy childhood was about to be revealed. And that meant my lady business wasn't.

I was beginning to like Dr. Wellsworth a lot.

But not like that.


	7. Chapter 7

Fifty Shades of Flannel Chapter 7

Christian looked like had just cancelled his standing laser hair removal appointment.

_I thought we agreed never, ever to speak of my most shameful secret. _Christian was trembling.

What could be so heinous that it brought this stallion of a man-boy to his knees? And not because he thought Hugh Jackman was standing at a card table.

Had he been hurtful to someone who hadn't agreed to his labyrinth of perversion?

(note to self "labyrinth of perversions"….good one. Use in future…).

Perhaps he had ruined a company, a family, or worn man capris, flip-flops and a confederate cap whilst doing errands?

What could it be?

_You might as well know Mrs. Steele, I was married at the age of 20 for 6 months._

His head fell into his hands but was still attached to his body.

_Sheesh. Is that it? That's your big dark hard LeBron James and me in a hot tub…sorry I mean big dark secret?_

I looked at Dr. Wellsworth who had the glow of a woman who had had just found a Tory Burch cashmere coat at TJ Maxx for 80% off.

_Listen you two. You've both got some boundary issues. This is nothing…nothing I tell you!_ I flung my hands in the air (now covered in Lanz gloves).

I regarded Dr. Wellsworth_. _

_Why are you making him feel so terrible? Believe me, Mr. Butt Plug over here has plenty to be sorry for, but not this. _I sat on a small paddling bench, making sure my lower Lanz was still folded in my Hanes.

Dr. Wellsworth was defiant.

_Well, he, I mean, that's a pretty bad secret…being married for such a short time. He should atone._

Christian began a P90X ab workout.

I took control.

_Hey Liberace, it's atone not tone. _

He stopped jabbing at the air. I continued.

_Really? Of all the weird things you two have clearly been involved with, it's this, Dr. Hoo-hoo Housecall, that he needs to disclose or feel ashamed of? _I had her attention.

_You really need to take a good long look in the mirror. There's a blonde chin hair about 2 inches long, and you are being bizarrely smug._ Boom goes the dynamite, because she quickly took her Hermes and made like one.

Christian looked at me with real tenderness and thanks. Like a Hawk ready to take flight, his eyes darted skyward as he clapped his hands and two manservants wheeled in a large Gucci wardrobe.

_Mrs. Steele, no one, and I mean no one, has ever stood up for me before. I am truly grateful. And I want you to have this._

Each Bermuda-short wearing servant slowly opened the wardrobe to reveal: The entire Lanz Summer and Winter Nightgown collection. Tartans, shamrocks, hearts, roses, edelweiss…it was too much.

Now we were getting somewhere.

_I take back the Liberace crack._ I told him humbly.

Christian smiled at me, and for the first time, I smiled back.


	8. Chapter 8

There could be no faster way to my heart than a closetful of new Lanz nightgowns.

Christian was looking for the fastest way to a location significantly south of my heart. But he was getting warmer. And so was I.

I had gleefully spent the last thirty minutes sashaying, pirouetting, and mincing about in my new finery.

If anything was going to melt my imaginary chastity belt, trust me, he was getting close with this selection.

He sat like a Pasha, laughing, as I appeared from behind the gargantuan wardrobe in each new garment.

_Ok, close your eyes and think… Sound of Music. I'm Julie Andrews and Captain Von Trapp has only just realized that I am way more than a nun. And a nanny. And general free labor on loan from a convent. It's before the cocktail party scene but after I sat on the pinecone at dinner..._

I emerged in a voluminous white nightgown dotted with rosebuds, and trimmed with the requisite cotton trim. I threw my arms out and improvised lyrics with gusto.

_The hills are alive with the sound of nightgowns. More nightgowns than I've ever seen before…my heart will be blessed with the sound of nightgowns…until there's nightgowns no more. _

Admitted weak finish, but I sat down to take a breath. Christian's eyes danced with joy.

_I love to make you happy. I want to make you happy. If only you'd allow me to show you other ways to feel happiness you've never known._

Oh sweet Lord. He was still at it. This buffet of flannel confections had blurred the lines. He could see my joy and had mistaken it for a flashing "Open For Business" sign.

Of course he was confused. Here I was making up my own lyrics to Rodgers and Hammerstein songs. That must have felt like a dream come true for him.

I had to get his mind off this familiar and fearsome track.

_I know that listening and learning must have played a huge part in making you the success that you are today. _I tried to strike a very non-alluring pose.

Christian still had the glazed and excited look of Anderson Cooper in a Balinese boys-only youth hostel.

How to break through the sexual tension? How to ignite something else, anything else, in him?

_I have an idea for a business. A product unlike anything the world has ever seen. _I made this bold statement holding the skirt of my Lanz in one hand like an evening gown train.

Christian was an entrepreneur at his core. His face hardened (and let's pray that's the only thing that was) and I knew that I had his attention.

_I continue to do a select amount of venture capital work. Go on. _He crossed his legs and took out a small ostrich notepad and gold pen.

In the interest of keeping the energy light, non-sexual and entertaining, I casually moved though my usual "I'm-At-A-Wedding-And-Have-To Dance" routine of "running man" followed by a brief sequence of "milk the cow" and "traffic stop."

_Stop dancing._ He commanded in an irritated tone.

_Is this product a Segway "the world has never seen this" sort of a thing…because I will tell you in no uncertain terms that every V/C guy in America is still smarting from that glorified hobbyhorse. Dean Kamen can no more show his face at the Metropolitan Club, than fly to the moon…_

He was not happy. He got up petulantly and came towards me.

_You're stalling Mrs. Steele. You've been stalling for days now. How dumb do you think I am?_

He surprised me with his strength as he used the yoke of my Lanz to life me off my feet.

_You don't have an idea. You have nothing. You are mine and the contract says so. _He hissed unpleasantly in my ear.

I felt my airway constricting as the Austrian needlework dug into my neck.

_But I do…I do have an idea…for women…like me_…I sputtered.

His perfect lips came close to my ear and I recalled a few scenes from _Silence of the_ _Lambs._ Was he going to bite my face and wear me like a Lady Helene Pore-Tightening Face Masque?

_Tell me now!_ He commanded.

_The Lady Cork_. I sputtered.

_The Lady Cork_. I was spent. I bowed my head and prepared to be mauled like a foot long Italian by Jared after a walk around the block.

He put me down.

_Go on. _He folded his arms.

_The name intrigues me._

I stood before him like a contestant on Shark Tank. This was my big chance.

_The Lady Cork. Tagline: "It Isn't About What It Keeps In. It's About What it Keeps Out." _

He raised an eyebrow.

_Available in three sizes. _I finished as I collapsed on the floor.


	9. Chapter 9

Fifty Shades of Flannel Chapter 9

A look that surpassed desire, rounded the corner to pure adulation and double-parked in front of wonder, shown in Christian's eyes.

_Mrs. Steele, have you told another living soul about The Lady Cork? _He gently put me down and appeared to shift from would-be molester to seasoned businessman.

_No,_ I sputtered. _No one knows. I only thought of it the other night when I wanted to sleep but was kind of nervous that you would…you know…"visit" me. I realized that I needed was some kind of a barrier, a gatekeeper, if you will. _

It took me a minute to collect myself, and I privately celebrated my success at guiding his attention from my lady business to real business.

Christian took out a titanium iphone and dialed.

That thing must weigh a ton. He spoke with authority and another dose of foreboding.

_David, fire up the jet. Mrs. Steele and I are going to New York. Call Wim Weatherston at Goldman and tell him I have something…and it's big. _He ended the call.

_It's not big necessarily, I told you about the three sizes "Small, Medium, and What the Hell Have You Been Doing Down There…" _I knew I was babbling but I was excited and nervous.

_New York_? I asked.

_Do you mean we're leaving this 9 and ½ Weeks, set piece? I'm still getting used to having conversations while looking at 23 phalluses mounted on the wall, but I'll kind of miss the ole chamber…" _

It was true.

They say you adapt to your surroundings, and I had become accustomed to the Chardonnay, Pinot Grigio, Beluga omelets, scented baths, leather masks, impromptu pap smears, White Bordeaux and comings and goings of various lackeys. It wasn't a bad life. Especially if you could, as I had, avoid unpleasant unveilings and foreign insertions.

Not that I'm judging. Anyway, Christian was in full billionaire mode.

_Is the Lady Cork a proprietary idea?_ Christian asked as he pressed a button and a mini Armani store (ladies section) appeared from behind one of the walls.

_I'm going to need you to look as professional as possible for our meetings on Wall Street. Are you familiar with your clothing size in European apparel? _

How dare he! I had tried on Burberry shirts during the Nordstrom Annual Women and Children's Sale!

_I most certainly am, and I can tell you I'm not too happy about it. I'm a 42…a 42! What woman wants to wear a 42? That's the reason the European financial market is in such a shambles._ _If those bozos can't get on board with a woman's desire to be a single digit size…well, it's no wonder Spain owes China half of Portugal. Or is it Greece that owes Germany a third of France? I hope the French have some sort of sovereign rule by the Norwegians. God, they're unpleasant. Hey, Pierre, howsabout a Speed Stick applied liberally in the underarm area a few times a year? You're not going to win any new wars by stinking us out. Smelling like ripe Camembert went out with Mitterrand._

Christian looked bored and I knew I was burbling again. However, it was my kind of fast mind work that had invented The Lady Cork, so he'd better get used to it. A Megan Fox look-alike dressed all in black appeared in the Armani store.

_I've leave you to it, then. We depart in an hour. Please ask Francine to get you anything else you need: a scarf, shoes, bag. I have a large selection of accessories and leathergoods as well._

Oh Geez. How can I get through to this guy that this is not normal?

A spare toothbrush and a t-shirt or two? Yes. Fine. But a modified Bergdorf in your bachelor pad spelled "Problem" with a capitol G.

None of that was important. What was important that my product (designed to help women everywhere) was about to see the light of day and so was I.

Like an episode of "What Not To Wear," I spent the next 35 minutes being transformed into a vision of female authority. I looked like an expensively garbed middle school principal with high morals and no fun.

For luck, I had folded a shred of Lanz flannel into a pocket square and placed it in my breast pocket.

Francine threw up a delicate amount in a rosewood wastebasket as I did it.

I was going to New York. The last time I went was for my neighbor's 40th birthday. If you consider watching the Today Show behind police tape, and a matinee of Thunder From Down Under at Radio City Music Hall a good time, then this was your dream trip.

I walked towards the doors to my future, threw them open, and stepped into my destiny.

I would not rest until every gal in America, nay the world, was sitting on a Lady Cork.

Literally.


	10. Chapter 10

Fifty Shades of Flannel Chapter 10

Christian and I stood in front of a magnificent building in New York's famed financial district.

I felt like a combination of Carrie Bradshaw, Hilary Clinton and Paula Abdul.

That is to say, as I stood ready to walk into our Lady Cork meeting with investment bankers, I felt sexy, capable and slightly drunk.

There are moments that could change your life and this was one of them. Who could have imagined me, Mrs. Steele, poised for entrepreneurial greatness?

I would be like the creator of Spanx but older. I would be like the founder of Mary Kay Cosmetics but younger and with a lot less facial plastic surgery. Plus also not exhumed because she might be dead.

No matter!

What had started out a few weeks ago as an unfortunate outing in my Lanz nightgown had shape-shifted into a real life Cinderella story starring me (and not Brandy in that awful 1997 TV movie version).

Christian indicated that I step through the heavy glass door (it was being held open) and I did so.

Minutes later, we were being led by an efficient young woman to a conference room.

_The team will be right up. Can I get you anything?_

I was about to ask for a Nutrigrain bar and an Advil, but Christian answered for both of us. _ Nothing, thanks. We're going to need a moment._

She nodded and left us. Christian turned to me.

_Let me tell you how this will go. I will make the introductions, Wim and his people will make a few pleasantries and then I'll turn it over to you. _

Me? Comfy flannel nightgown, pervert-thwarting me?

Wasn't he observant enough to realize by now that I'd be on Turbo Babble Pilot? This was Wall Street not Main Street. It wasn't even a cul-de-sac, what chance did I have presenting to a group of MBAs?

He looked pityingly at me.

_You know the old advice for public speaking? He asked._

_Pretend to choke and leave the room? _I thought this was a decent guess.

_No. Just imagine everyone is in their underwear. I've never needed to resort to it, but it might help you. He leaned back in his chair._

I doubted very highly that Christian did not spend most of every day imagining people in their underwear, but I felt it best to nod gratefully.

Four people came into the room.

Profiling is a dangerous game, I know, but this group seemed to have the mark of "Human Resources" on it: there was "Older White Guy," "Young Asian Woman," "Young Black Guy," and "Middle-Aged Indian Guy."

All the bases were covered. But I had a feeling "Older White Guy" was the only one who couldn't sue if he was fired.

Panic rose in me. I calmed myself by recalling an Oprah show where the self-help expert du jour (but not the one who got Oprah to lose 100lbs of fat and pull it in a toboggan) had advocated "Fake It 'Til You Make It."

It was my turn to fake and possibly, make it. Silence is often mistaken for great depth, so I shook hands but said nothing.

This seemed to make them nervous.

_We want to thank you folks for making the trip to see us, _Older White Guy said trying to appear casual. He hadn't gotten the memo that "folks" went out in the early 90s. Unless you're in American politics.

Young Asian Woman was having none of it. She had received the memo even though she had been in grade school at the time.

_Let's cut to the chase. We see a lot of deals. We go forward with very few. Why you? Why this? Why us?_

Christian sat imperviously and unmoved. He let a few seconds go by before he answered.

_Mrs. Steele has a revolutionary product. Her options to bring it to market, and ultimately bring her company public, will be myriad. I encourage you to think about, why you? Why this firm? Why should she give you ten more seconds of her time after that amateurish remark?_

He was playing hardball! And not with his usual choice of balls.

My deeply ingrained sense of silence filling and social niceness was kicking in, but I decided to keep close to his example.

I nodded in what I hoped was a stern way. Middle Aged Indian Guy got up to get me a glass of water, so I may have just looked like I was having a Petit Mal.

But I still hadn't spoken which was very foreboding of me.

Christian's words had the desired effect. The group looked nervously at each other and Young Black Guy broke the silence.

_Absolutely fair. Good observations, Mr. Grey. We feel fortunate that you're here with us, and giving us an opportunity to help with initial financing…_

Christian cut him off.

_Mrs. Steele will be describing her product briefly. She will then allow you two minutes to ask questions. After that, she will allow you five minutes to offer a deal proposal._

Everyone nodded and looked at me.

This was like a live broadcast. I was on!

_The Lady Cork is a device…and object…a cork…Sorry I said that already. The Lady Cork is something a woman…a lady…puts somewhere to keep out…I mean to keep someone from getting in to her…_

Oh God. This was really hard. I don't care if they were in their underwear. It didn't help. I was panicking. I tried to read their faces but that was too scary.

…_So if you want to let's say, go on your daughter's Girl Scout camp-out, but you kind of think that creepy park ranger might try and get up to no good, you'd just put in the Lady Cork…_

They all looked mystified. Young Black Guy was tapping on his phone, Older White Guy was looking sadly at me, Middle-aged Indian Guy looked appalled, and Young Asian Woman looked condescending.

Christian looked at me steadily. He seemed to be saying _You can do it, _with his eyes. If his eyes could talk.

I took a deep breath.

_The Lady Cork goes in your lady parts so no man parts or manmade man parts can get in and bug you. That's it in a nutshell. It keeps nuts out of your shell, if you get my drift._

I waited. The group was giving me their full attention. Older White Guy spoke first.

_My wife would buy one and so would every woman on her tennis team. And in her book club._

Young Asian Woman spoke next with a newfound reverence.

_So damned simple. So damned brilliant. Why didn't I think of it?_

Middle Aged Indian Guy was next.

_In my province back home, you could sell six million units in the first month! I used to listen to my aunties going on and on about how they would give anything to just keep the men at bay…_

Young Black Guy brought it home. He extended his hand.

_Mrs. Steele, welcome to the Goldman Sachs family. We would be honored to be a part of this offering. I predict an IPO that will knock investors socks off._

I had been silent too long. I had to speak.

_Just as long as it doesn't knock any Lady Corks out!_

The room erupted in laughter.

I touched my Lanz pocket square for luck.

I was a Wall Street player. I'd heard them referred to as "ballers" too, but this was the dawn of a new era.

And balls won't be part of it.


	11. Chapter 11

**Fifty Shades of Flannel Chapter 11**

Christian and I hit the streets of Manhattan after our victorious meeting.

Then we began to walk.

It was so exhilarating. I hadn't felt this alive since Donny Osmond toured in _Joseph and_ _The Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat, _and I ran into him at a Walgreen's.

Christian and I made a great team, and I decided to say so.

_You and I make a great team; _I shared as we walked briskly down the packed sidewalks.

He smirked and regarded me.

_I've always told you, Mrs. Steele, we were meant to be as one._

Oh for the love, he can't let it go. Marshaling my sternest aura, I sought to quench his desire.

_When you say that, it sounds like a remake of Human Centipede is in the works, starring me, in the back. I wish you could see that this entire journey (_got that from _The Bachelorette_) _has actually been a means to this end._

He raised an eyebrow.

I'd said end!

Christian turned onto west 52nd and paused in front of a building with "21" emblazoned on the awning, and a lot of politically incorrect jockey statues in front.

Was this a gentleman's club? A place where you had to be 21 or under 21? I didn't know.

It had been awhile since I'd had a hit of white wine, so it was natural that I was feeling off.

_Mrs. Steele, I want to treat you to a time-honored business right of passage: the 21 Club lunch._

_I have a twenty in my purse, so if you can spot me a one, I'd love to join you. _As a successful entrepreneur, it was only fitting that I pay for myself.

Christian had that dead seagull look in his eyes.

_It's not twenty-one dollars, it's the name of the restaurant. It's very famous._

Wanting to appear jaded with a dose of ennui, I revealed my own knowledge.

_Of course, I knew that. I had heard that 31 Flavors has a new venture…_

Christian closed his eyes and rubbed his temples.

Perhaps he had been too long without Pinot Grigio too.

Restaurant names were forgotten over the next two hours as we returned to our Henry the Eighth ways: I had five glasses of wine, one crab cake, two rare lamp chops, several potato preparations, a small filet mignon and a cigar.

This was living.

But Christian brought me back to earth.

_Are you ready to head to the factory to begin the prototype process?_

The wine had not sharpened my hearing.

_Am I ready to tread in the wing of a futon outlet?_

Christian looked as weary as I had ever seen him.

_Mrs. Steele, this is a very old vaudeville bit. But we do have a four o'clock appointment at a well-known manufacturing concern. You're going to need to clear your head and begin to think about initial prototypes._

I felt fortunate that the head clearing today would be me and not him. So I was all in.

_We don't need a factory._ He was about to learn a bit more about my own fiscal ingenuity.

_Take me to the nearest Michael's Craft store, _I commanded commandingly.

Christian's eyes narrowed, but he appeared resigned to my plan.

_All right. Your will be done, _he said rising from the leather booth.

I stood unsteadily and held onto the table for a minute.

_There's no need to start quoting bible verses, Mitt Romney. Let's keep religion out of this._

We headed for the door, and most importantly for the craft store; a place where whimsy, hormonal swings and thirteen kinds of glue would make me feel like I was home.


	12. Chapter 12

Fifty Shades of Flannel Chapter 12

Christian and I sped away from our lunch, and towards the Michael's Craft store on Columbus Avenue.

I was beginning to understand why New York was viewed as the ultimate city by so many: where else could you find Donald Trump, progressive Montessori schools where children only spoke Latin, and the world's largest purveyor of crafts? Nowhere else, I tell you!

We alighted from the car (when we could have just gotten out), and I strode with purpose and fortitude towards the door.

We were on my turf now. These were my people.

I took my Lanz pocket square and efficiently wiped the handle of the cart I had selected.

_Why, may I ask, are you doing that? _Christian seemed weaker and unsure of himself. Ah, the power of Michaels.

_Germs, my friend. Are you aware that the average Target or Kmart shopping cart handle has Ebola virus, HIV, HPV, and a trace of Calgon Minted Lemon lotion- gross!_

Christian looked distressed as we headed towards the decorative accessories section.

I knew exactly what I was looking for.

Christian looked overwhelmed.

_Welcome to my world, Mr. Grey,_ I thought happily.

He looked as if he had stumbled into a wonderland, or the changing room of the Chippendales. He touched an indigo pottery vase.

_You mean, a person…not a decorator…can actually buy all of this? Do you need to be a professional interior designer to purchase here? _He wandered awestruck through the vase aisle and appeared to steady himself in the frame section.

_But…but I was told that I needed a decorator to be able to obtain accessories: vases, frames, knick-knacks, bric a brac._

I stopped and turned towards him.

_Listen; don't make me punch you in the nose. Although I know that's probably another one of your "things." Of course you don't need a decorator. They all come here! Well, here and TJ Maxx HomeGoods. But they don't want you to know that. And as a pal, let me say, please drop "bric a brac" and "knick knack" from your vocabulary. It ain't helping._

He looked suitably sober as we rounded a corner to a long row of glass jars with cork stoppers.

_Start grabbing,_ I said as I took three jars of varying sizes and put them in the cart.

Christian did as instructed- the master was now the servant.

_We need as many sizes as possible. And let's grab some pink spray paint while we're at it. We want to make them appealing, _I instructed.

Moving quickly and with fluid motion (ew), he gathered and stacked. And I'm talking about the jars here.

We took our place in the checkout line and I could see his mind was calculating.

_Mrs. Steele, I have to admire your resourcefulness. We will spend approximately ninety seven dollars on an effort I had budgeted $53,000 for. Our profit margin, when we launch, could well be 900%. What is your plan for testing?_

My stomach lurched. As blithely as I had spoken of the Lady Cork, I hadn't really truly thought about it's…introduction into...or to actual ladies.

_I assume you have a plan for test subjects: how to recruit, compensate, evaluate._

My confidence was fading fast. I couldn't solicit friends, "Hey Francine, put this in your hoo haw and tell me how it goes," I'd be the pariah of the carpool line. Like that Mom in the tennis skirt who spent 10 minutes headfirst in her Escalade trunk. It was more than anyone should see.

She's gonna need a medium to large Lady Cork, by the way.

I had to find someone with access to a lot of ladies. And their parts. And bits. And…I had it!

_Christian, call Dr. Wellsworth at once. We need to meet with her ASAP. Tell her my pants will be on. It's my brain she'll have access to today._

He looked admiringly at me as I handed over my coupons.

Let the corking begin.


	13. Chapter 13

Fifty Shades of Flannel Chapter 13

Christian had taken a suite at the St. Regis. Upon hearing this, I insisted quite vehemently that he give it back, only to learn "take" means "reserved" if you are enormously wealthy.

I was enjoying the brief respite by freshening up, which if you are not enormously wealthy, means perusing the tiny bottles in the hotel bathroom and swishing the (very weak) mouthwash into the very clean sink.

I had changed into one of my new Lanz nightgowns. I felt like myself again. An Austrian version of myself.

I rejoined Christian in the living room. He seemed mildly aghast at my appearance. I spoke with resolve.

_Remain calm, Tim Gunn. I know I have on a Lanz, but this is "me" time. I have been wearing that executive get-up for two days. I need to let loose. _ Boy, it felt good to just tell him the truth.

I sat down on the couch and put my matching Lanz slippers up on the coffee table.

A bell sounded and Dr. Wellsworth came crisply into the room.

She had the expectant look of an IRS auditor and I raised a Lanz-clad arm to stop her.

_Hold it right there, Dr. Quinn. This Indian has a thing or two to say. First of all, if anyone is getting the "business" today it's you and not me. You're here because I, formerly known as "Potential Sex Partner Number 403," have come up with a swell elegant product. And I need your help. _

Dr. Wellsworth had been reaching into her bag for, no doubt, some gruesome lady-examining implement.

She was nothing if not astute, and she closed the bag, and sat down opposite from me.

_Christian had me briefed on the Lady Cork on the way here. I'd like to congratulate you on carving out a new segment in the personal care/feminine care category. _

I sat up a bit straighter. I was an entrepreneur after all.

_I gather the testing stage is next, so you have efficacy research to show your investors..." _She looked expectantly at me.

Dammit. I was on again.

I did what millions of business people all over the world do each day: I took the "big" words and flung them together.

_Yes, I expect a paradigm shift will occur when we add value to the proposition. But not before we take a snapshot of outcomes and check in with our stakeholders. _That sounded pretty good to me.

Christian and Dr. Wellsworth looked at each other.

_Mrs. Steele, we don't expect a creative engineer, such as yourself, to really have a full sense of all aspects of R and D. _He looked sympathetic.

The nerve.

_Oh I know all about your R and D, mister. And that sort of thing will have no place in the Lady Cork business. No siree, Bob. We're going to run a tight ship. None of those shenanigans around here. _I was getting irked.

_R and D. _Christian said blandly.

_I heard you quite clearly. I just used the very lethal hotel grade Q-Tips in the bathroom. _I said.

_No. R and D refers to Research and Development. B and D is Bondage and Discipline._

_Oh. Never mind._ I buttoned my Lanz all the way to the top.

Dr. Wellsworth, perhaps harkening back to our conversation about gypsies and cleaning, helped me recover.

_I took the liberty of making a few calls. There is a club I have a relationship with. I'm their on-call physician. They employ a number of women, and I know they would be glad to be part of a research group._

A club! I had always wanted to see the inside of a real East Coast Country Club. This was going to be like something out of Gatsby.

_Are we going to Connecticut, or Long Island maybe? I think the Real Housewives of New York belong to some kind of club in the Hamptons. Or maybe they just play tennis in their backyard…_

Christian looked wryly amused.

_No Mrs. Steele. We're not going to a Bastian of Episcopal folly, though I do like to watch Republicans drink. We're going to Black Widow. It's a strip club._

Satan on a Snicker's bar! These two were at it again. But I didn't have time for moral judgments. This reminded me of the time I had overslept for the Family Mass and Breakfast. The time I was in charge of putting the donuts on the trays. A crisis situation, if you will.

At times like this, you just do what you have to do.

I stood and smoothed out my pristine Lanz and took an instant to admire the little red hearts and bright blue flowers.

_I'm a realist. I know I need a passel of…you know what. So this place sounds as good as any. Plus, I'm sure modesty will be in short supply. But I warn you…_

Christian and Dr. Wellsworth looked at me.

_I'm not changing. I'm wearing a Lanz to a strip club, and it may well be the first time anywhere. Unless Laura Bush had a side job none of us knew about._

And with that, I swept in regal flannel fashion out the door.


	14. Chapter 14

Fifty Shades of Flannel Chapter 14

I never pledged a sorority in college (Eastern Kansas Methodist didn't allow them), but the performers' area of _Black Widow _was what I imagined one would be like.

But with a lot less turtlenecks and corduroy.

Christian, Dr. Wellsworth, and I were ushered in VIP-style to the dressing area, which was extremely crowded as ladies of all shapes and sizes prepared to go on-stage.

We shouted to hear each other.

_I'm going to find Max, the owner, _Dr. Wellsworth screamed and headed down a hallway.

Christian and I nodded, his gaze drifting from me to the talent around us.

It was some sort of costume party that night: there were ladies dressed as schoolgirls, police officers, firewomen, witches, and plumbers.

_They seem to be rushing the Halloween season,_ I shrieked at Christian as he was buffeted on a sea of scantily clad nuns.

He put his hand to his ear and shook his head.

_I said, they seem to be rushing Halloween! I know Target has their candy out, but even Wal-Mart has only just put Fourth of July on clearance…_

Suddenly, Christian was nowhere to found. I was hollering into the ear of a man who looked just like Mr. Clean if he was Russian and straight.

Wordlessly, he placed his baseball mitt-sized hand on the back of my neck and firmly pushed me ahead of him. He spoke into his Bluetooth.

_Naughty housewife walking. Stage left in three.___He used his free arm to clear a path for us, and a Tinkerbelle and a Dutch girl, scattered.

A woman patted my face with a large foundation-soaked sponge.

Was this some kind of ambush makeover? Frankly, I'd much prefer _Yard Crashers_. Our mulch could use a bit of freshening.

I may not be a genius, but as I took three steps up some linoleum stairs, and a crouching man yanked open a curtain, I realized that I was about to add "Exotic Dancer" to my list of occupations.

The list had previously included Dairy Queen worker, wife, mother and Catholic school volunteer (it's much less glamorous than it sounds).

The last several weeks with Christian had been a crash course in Male Libido 101 and if ever I was to use my newfound knowledge to good use, it was now.

_They want what they can't have._ I told myself confidently.

_Well don't have some of this!_

I squinted as I stepped onstage. My only performance experience was a well-received stint as an acorn squash in the 1979 Hillwood Elementary Thanksgiving play.

This audience didn't look a whole lot different from the Dads and Moms of yore. Emphasis on the Dads.

People were hooting and yelling.

There was a pole ahead of me. I was thankful for the free coupon for a "Stripper Pole" class that I had redeemed once at the local Curves.

Summoning my inner courage and a good deal of core strength, I hoisted myself up and made it around twice, my Lanz billowing nicely.

More whoops and clapping. I was a natural.

A voice sliced through the din like Sarah Palin in a library.

_Nehmen sie das Lanz ab!_

I understood the Lanz part. I peered into the crowd to see who was familiar with my sleepwear choice.

Four men garbed in traditional Austrian business attire were waving gleefully at me.

I could barely believe my eyes, and my luck. Each of their hats was trimmed in Lanz fabric.

They smiled and pointed proudly at their hats.

_Wir sind Lanz!_

I shimmied closer to the edge of the stage.

One of the men stood and cupped his hands.

_We are the Lanz. We make your gown._

I couldn't have expected a bigger tip that night.

The mother ship had arrived. And she was full of Tyrolean nightgown executives.

Lanz was in the house.

I jumped up and down to express my glee, and a few men rushed the stage to peek under my gown.

Little did they know I had re-purposed the Lanz bloomers from a few weeks before.

I took a deep breath and leapt off the stage.

A beloved old-world brand was about to meet the future.

Because the future was a housewife/stripper/inventor with nerves of steel.

And a last name to match.


	15. Chapter 15

Fifty Shades of Flannel Chapter 15

They say all good things must come to an end.

I am still reeling from the demise of _All My Children, Mademoiselle _magazine and Twinkies.

My story has an ending too.

Unless you are interested in valuation multiples, future earnings, and knockwurst, you couldn't possibly want all the details regarding the (inevitable) meeting that took place regarding a joint venture between The Lady Cork and Lanz.

Let's face it, we were both in the lady comfort business. The Lady Cork and the Lanz accomplish the same end goal: man-repelling.

Following my surprisingly successful turn as a dancer at _Black Widow_, Christian and I realized that a natural partner for the Lady Cork, was right under our noses. Mine because it was elevated onstage above the Lanz people, and Christian's because he believed he was superior to all living beings.

Hammering out the details of the deal was concluded within a matter of days.

As I sat at our celebratory closing dinner at _21_ (my choice this time) I felt a sense of pride in myself.

A short time ago, I was simply a Mom in a flannel nightgown, stumbling into the executive offices of a man who would turn my world upside down.

Not me, mind you. My world.

That first fateful day, ideas of future businesses, feathers on sticks, hot wax and rare wines weren't even in my thoughts. And now, I was on intimate terms with all of them. My version of intimate.

I had become a Mom/entrepreneur/stripper in a bespoke Lanz cocktail dress entertained by her investment bankers. Few can say that.

Maybe a few women in Greenwich and Montecito but that's about it.

The Lanz Herren had been quite impressed with my Lanz creations, and had signed me to a three-year design deal (on top of the Lady Cork business).

Christian was gazing at me over a snifter of amber-colored brandy. I picked up my own and swirled it. Only a few drops splashed on my upper lip. I licked them away knowing the effect it would have.

He motioned me to join him, and I rose to do so. Then I sneezed daintily as I am allergic to roses.

_You are a marvel, Mrs. Steele. _Christian toasted me with his snifter.

_I couldn't agree more_. I answered.

My newfound sense of self was showing. And so was my bra strap. Dammit!

I slipped the strap under the one-of-a-kind taffeta fabric printed in the familiar edelweiss and heart pattern.

_You're leaving me. I can feel it._ Christian looked hawk-like into the distance.

I remained wren-like and serene.

_All good things must come to an end. I know this isn't the ending you had envisioned. _I said.

Christian looked at me sadly.

_No it's not._

I took his hand in mine and he looked shyly at me. I spoke firmly.

_Your ending had me in the role of roped steer at the State Fair 4H Teen Roping Competition. But that's not me. I'm pretty plain vanilla. My motto is "Every Saturday night whether we want to or not."_

_Mrs. Steele, you are plain vanilla with more sprinkles than you would like to admit." _Christian kissed my hand and was gone.

Sprinkles. Well how do you like that?

He was making frozen yogurt references and I was a Wall Street player.

Life is strange.

We had influenced each other. Christian and I had each changed. Probably for the better.

I reached into my bag and pulled out the surprise I had made for him that he would likely never see:

A pair of gleaming sliver handcuffs softly lined in flannel.

I debated leaving them on the table. But instead I put them back into my bag.

If I had learned one thing, it was that you just never know when something might come in handy.

THE END.


End file.
